


observer

by WhimsicalSparky



Category: Vocaloid
Genre: F/M, Fluff, five things fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-29
Updated: 2020-09-29
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:35:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26706103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhimsicalSparky/pseuds/WhimsicalSparky
Summary: four times he stays silent about his feelings, and one time he says it
Relationships: Hatsune Miku/Kagamine Len
Comments: 1
Kudos: 17





	observer

**Author's Note:**

> my hand slipped
> 
> consider this my early contribution for lenmiku day :)

i.

It's like watching the sunrise after an eternity of living in the darkness. He has hands around a handmade vase with simple patterns painted blue on white porcelain, and thinks about filling it with blossoms—her favorite poppies, her bomb-flowered peonies. Her scent never leaves his house after the first time she was here.

Those three damned words are stuck in his throat. He is silent despite the pleasant shockwaves in his nerves when she smiles at him and touches his hand, because she's this angel who makes him think of sappy poetry and allegories that he doesn't want to admit he writes.

He brings the vase to her and gifts her flowers, excusing himself with a, "I thought you would like some color in your room."

And she's smiling, she's glowing. "Thanks, Len. It's very sweet of you."

"Sure," he mumbles, handing it out. She takes it and spins in her heels to depart to her room.

And he smells it again; flowers with a hint of a fairytale love and kindness, from her flowing hair which he always wants to grab a teal strand and lightly press it on his lips. He wants to say it.

He doesn't.

.

ii.

Scraped knees, teeth-grazed lips, fingers that restlessly tap a clumsy rhythm. She, too, is this mystery keeping him awake in moonless nights, like a novel he'd read many times but is yet to fully comprehend the meanings behind each metaphor; and maybe he already had, and it doesn't stop him from wanting more.

The end of another year reminds him of his own incompetency. It's something so simple, so incredibly simple that it borders on insulting, like breathing or the certainty of tomorrow's sun. She is right beside him, gaze fixed on the television instead of him; she's here, close enough so he can smell her, the scent of flowers and something he thinks it's promised happiness.

"We should do this more often," she says, turning to him with gleaming eyes. She's happy. "Thanks for suggesting a movie night, Len."

A knot in his throat. A fire igniting in his heart. Perhaps he can dare and hold her hand; kiss it and whisper poetry in her ear. All he's been doing is creating—paintings, poetry, stories, music—as if it would prove anything. As if he can escape love's tight grip. Courtly love is not made for a person like him; heart of fire, skin of diamond, eyes of vast summer sky.

He averts his eyes, suddenly awkward. "It's no problem. I thought you would like a… quieter celebration."

She laughs, and he lets it be imprinted in his memories again. It will be another night of futile, wishful dreams. "Yeah. I don't like parties very much—well, neither of us do. Too much noise."

"Mm," he agrees lamely. Too much noise and too little of her. Parties smell of sweat and unwelcoming contact, of alcohol and sadness and lost opportunities. She's never as beautiful when she's overwhelmed. Parties make her small and coy and timid. A shadow in some dusty corner rather than a spirit nobody can hope to ever tame.

She leans on his arm, rests her head on his shoulder. Maybe, he thinks hopefully, she'll hold his hand and he will say it. He wants to say it.

He doesn't.

.

iii.

He wonders how does it feel to swallow a star.

She is this nymph living in the forest of his dreams, cajoling him to a dance and laughing so freely even when he's all but an eyeless, skinless corpse with rotting limbs. She doesn't care. She breathes life in him, brings him back, sweeten up his bitter perception of the world—and they're waltzing again, leaving space for no one but her and thoughts of her and her scent.

He wants to kiss her. He wants her uncontrollable, beautiful self. He wants her smile shining like a second sun. He wants her scent tickling his nostrils, the flowers and the harmless contradiction present in every human being. He wants to tell her.

It's very, very sappy. He feels embarrassed. There's no armor safe from her touch; her fingers burn through metal, through skin and muscle, and before he knows it she's holding his heart again, giving sweet little kisses that obliterate his defenses. Every part of him is a little overwhelmed. Enough to notice, enough to spark interest. Not enough to scare him away. He still thinks of poetry.

But right now she treats his wounds carefully, as though they would break open if she presses harder than a feather-light touch. It was a stupid idea to fight those guys, and yet he feels no regret—he thinks of their disgusting selves talking about his friends, his sister and Miku, and he knows his rage is acceptable. How could he stay calm at such depraved comments? Impossible.

"Rin is going to kill you," she says. A futile attempt at scolding. His sister might tear him apart with arguments and a booming voice, but she'll understand him. She always does. He doesn't fight without good reason.

He chuckles despite the stinging on his chest. "I'll be fine, Miku. I can deal with her."

Hands on his, concern in her gaze. He forgets how gentle she can be. Or rather, its impact on him. She is bumbling so often, it's sometimes easy to be surprised by her soft hold on his shoulder or the shuddering sigh at his occasional recklessness. And he thinks of kissing her, to make her worries go away. He thinks of comforting her in a loving embrace and a promise he'll inevitably break.

And he wants to say it—the three damned words.

He doesn't.

.

iv.

In another universe he is certainly a knight and she is his queen. He would never say she's a princess because she is not frilly dresses and pleasantries and pastel-colored hubris. She's this queen who conquers and crushes her enemies beneath her shoes, lies sickly sweet and truths soft-tasting, sleeves hiding blades and hands made for destruction and creation in equal measure.

And he thinks, yes, he would destroy kingdoms upon kingdoms for her and he knows she would build empires and spiralling towers out of bones and blood and promises for him. She would lay his soul bare and smile only to him, end it all and restart the cycle— _be my king_ , she would ask and he would avert his gaze instead, afraid of answering because she is his weakness.

She has fallen asleep again, tired from studying though he's certain she won't remember half of what she (claims to have) read. Her head on his shoulder again, because she seems to gravitate towards him as much as he does. A relaxed smile on her face left from their earlier conversation about hosting movie night again, though there's no reason to celebrate yet.

Sometimes he feels tempted of asking her if she can hear it; the songs weaved by his heart in every beat. How is it to be so human yet so much more? Miku, Miku, Miku—he tries finding a bigger meaning behind her name, a clue to why she's like a star, crash-landed somewhere in the depths of the ocean from where she rose, reborn from seafoam and during the most fierce of storms before she relearned gentleness and patience on earth.

He doesn't know. It's like gripping sand.

Then she stirs herself awake, a little dazed and with an apology jumping to her tongue. Her scent of flowers and awkward cheerfulness. He merely grins and hopes she understands. He wants to say it, he does, he does, he does.

He doesn't say it.

Again and again and again—

.

v.

It's no secret he has been inspired by a muse whose name he refuses to reveal and yet is quite obvious if one reads between the lines. Rin knows and he's not afraid of admitting it. They're siblings, twins; with family he doesn't feel the need to wear masks and build up personas.

But one day she has enough of it.

He finds his sister showing a notebook to Miku—the poem he's been hiding, incomplete despite writing for almost a year and by now it borders on an epic of sorts, the poem he explicitly mentions her by name and physical appearance. Everything else was vague enough to be left up to imagination, but not that one. Not that one. He's been pouring his feelings on those pages when he felt too tired to pretend.

When they notice him there, watching them in shocked horror, Rin leaves them to talk and Miku is flushing red. There is no decent excuse as to why, why did he write about her, why was he hiding that—the answer is right there, written several times on paper.

He can't escape now. It's all or nothing.

"So it's true, huh?" she murmurs, almost too softly to be audible. "I, uhh, noticed a pattern in your latest works. Especially the writing. I didn't want to believe it so I thought, 'oh no, Len is talking about someone else. There's plenty of girls with long hair or pigtails or green eyes or a love for peonies and poppies. I can't be me,' every time."

His stomach sinks; oh, so this is how it ends. He knows where this goes. Unrequited love, feelings left to rot. This, he tries to reason with his growing sorrow, was a possible scenario since the very beginning. The more time passed, the more he was convinced that she would fall for someone else eventually. Because he was—is—a coward.

But she finally looks at him and she has a hopeful smile adorning her cherubic face. "It… still sounds too good to be true, so… uh." She plays with her hair, twirling long strands on her fingers. Her other hand is placed on the open notebook, tracing his handwriting as if seeking something. "Do you still feel this way? It's alright if you gave up on me."

"No!" he shouts without thinking. He can't think of himself giving up on her, as corny as it sounds. He has envisioned a future where she ends up with another man and he's merely her good friend and he still saw himself writing books upon books about her, living with the pain like second skin. He would still seek her in different ways. Chasing her in his dreams until he dies.

He doesn't like how sappy it is, but how else does it feel but not like unconditional love? It's embarrassing. That's why he has been hiding that notebook, not only to keep it away from her eyes.

He takes a moment to realize what he's said and how easily it can be misinterpreted. Her smile drops a little and he sucks air between his teeth. "I mean, I didn't give up on you. I still feel that way."

Her smile returns, thankfully. "Oh."

She approaches and hugs him. Their arms around each other's body, their heads on each other's shoulder. Their heights were always close to one another, though she's been the tallest one for the longest time and only now he's closing the already small gap and starting to surpass her. He would like if it remained this way, though. It's comfortable and has a sense of equality.

"I would like if you whispered poetry to me," she says, referencing his desires written on paper and purple prose. He smiles. Of course, of course. It'll be the first thing he will do after this.

He steps away, hands on her shoulders, and feels the three damned words in his throat once more. He can almost hear his heart singing, begging. Mustering all courage he's gathered. He wants to say it. She places her hands over his and smiles, expectant for this moment, and he wants to say it.

It comes out as a murmur shuddering with relief and affection: "I love you."

"I love you too," she replies as easy as it is to breathe. As if she's been waiting for this for months. Maybe she was. It doesn't matter anymore.

She's this girl he's in love with, teal hair and green eyes, who inspires him and leaves him tongue-tied but he indulges in her brilliant smiles and scent of flowers and something immaterial.


End file.
